I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here.
The maple tree in the backyard. The patio out front
now devoid of furniture, because he took that too.
Tonight my children are gone, and I am alone,
to take in the noise of Timonium road
as I eat my bowl of cod and salad cold.
The wind is intense, immense, and I bring my journal
back inside. The wine glass is empty though, medicine
grown on the vine, distilled, and bottled beautifully,
shining pink in the glass in the early evening sunlight,
bright red maple blossoms being chomped by hungry squirrels;
I didn’t know they did that. I didn’t know a lot of things.
Today he had a new car; a 2016 BMW turbo diesel wagon,
silver, like the fully paid off 2009 Honda Insight he traded in
just two hours before. Unless I suddenly, and by suddenly,
I mean in the next few months, learn how to earn more money,
this house will go into foreclosure, a process that takes six months,
or so they say. In the meantime, what shape will my life take?
In the meantime, how will I measure my days, my schedule
so radically changed? The daffodils are blooming out front,
and some hyacinths, now in their third year,
looking quite sparse and scraggly as hyacinths do
when they are past their prime. Am I past mine too?
Grieving what once was,
my house a stranger to me,
I dream about love.
Today’s prompt suggested we try out a haibun, a poetic form of which I was completely ignorant until just a few minutes ago. I didn’t get too caught up on following the rules. I Just wrote, and I’m calling it a haibun, because, again, poetic license.